


No Oasis in the Sand

by idiotbrothers



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Demon Dean, Episode Tag, Gen, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-05-25
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1688711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiotbrothers/pseuds/idiotbrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>9x23 coda. Sam finds out that Dean's a demon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Oasis in the Sand

Sam was in the middle of summoning Crowley, eyes trained intently on what he was doing like his life depended on it—and in some sickening, regrettable way, it felt like it did—when he heard a thudding noise coming from the next room. Heart lurching, he sprung up and sped toward the sound, numbed of all feeling, nothing but adrenaline keeping him going. When he entered the room, breathing hard even though he hadn’t had to travel very far, his eyes alighted on Crowley, pressed against the wall by…by. 

Every cell in Sam’s body seemed to freeze, and he stared uncomprehendingly at Dean, who was standing, his arms restraining Crowley and his lips twisted into a snarl. Dean, who had been cold and limp on Sam’s bed a short while ago, and now looked very much alive. Alive and upright, except.

Sam could feel his throat working as he struggled to say something, needed Dean to  _look at him_ , some awful desire for confirmation even as he realized that he didn’t want to know, didn’t want to accept what it was he thought he was seeing. Dean still wasn’t looking at him. 

"I raised you, you ungrateful halfwit," Crowley was saying, and though rage was radiating off his face, his voice was wobbling uncertainly, and he was actually shivering under Dean’s hands. There were deep cracks in the wall behind his body where Dean had slammed him into it. "You’d be rotting in Hell right now if it weren’t for me," Crowley tried again, spitting the words into Dean’s impassive face.

"Shut the fuck up," Dean said, nonchalant and pleasant, like he was making a suggestion. And then he stuck the First Blade through Crowley’s head. Sam couldn’t hold back a small gasp as Crowley’s body crumpled to the ground, blood spurting out of the wound in his slackened face and soaking the ground around his corpse. Dean swiveled to face him at the sound, and Sam raised a hand to his mouth, backing up a step and hitting the doorframe. Dean took a second to bend over and retrieve the crimson-drenched Blade, wiping it on the hem of Crowley’s coat before slinking towards Sam, meandering over with unhurried, noiseless footsteps, like he knew as well as Sam did that Sam’s legs had become weak and unresponsive. 

"Heya, Sammy," Dean drawled, baring his teeth in a grin. There were flecks of blood on his cheek, and Sam could smell it as well as he could the stuff that rushed through Dean’s veins now, thick and loud and making him dizzy with something he hadn’t felt this overpoweringly in years. "Dean," he croaked, slumping as his knees finally gave out and his ass hit the floor.

"You miss me, little brother? What’s wrong, too choked up for words?" He jeered down at Sam, the light overhead silhouetting his face so that his eyes weren’t visible, which is why it was such a shock when he crouched down and his eyes were beetle-black, gleaming as he considered Sam with a tilt of his head. Sam could feel his features crumpling, the heavy pressure in his chest tightening and his eyelashes moistening with the tears he’d suppressed after that first hour, and he fought valiantly to keep them back as Dean’s eyebrows shot up incredulously.

"What d’you have to cry about, huh? I mean, fuck, I’m back, aren’t I? Took a quick refresher course on that shithole of an operation Crowley was running, but thanks to his meddling ass, I’m topside again. So quit it." Sam’s voice was still mysteriously out of commission, and he couldn’t do more than swallow several times as the tears spilled over and streaked his cheeks, refusing to cooperate. 

"Jesus, how did I put up with you before," Dean muttered, rolling his eyes, except they were still black, so Sam could barely perceive the gesture. "You gonna say something, or d’you plan on sitting there and crying like a little bitch all night?"  

Sam smothered his face in his hands, hiding Dean’s eyes and the smear of blood at the corner of his lips from sight, beginning to shake as he tried to keep from sobbing. “Well. Okay, then. Have it your way.” Sam felt rather than heard Dean stand up, and when he pulled his hands away from his face after a minute, Dean was gone. Bracing one hand against the wall for support, Sam dragged himself up and stumbled out of his room, praying that Dean hadn’t gotten too far. His eyes felt raw and wrung-out, tears and snot drying on his face as he quickened his step, knowing that as much as he might want to, he couldn’t let Dean out of his sight.

He cleared his throat roughly, trying to make his voice work so he could call out for his brother. “Dean,” he whispered, and tried again, voice nothing more than a low rasp. He knew Dean was around there somewhere because he could hear the distant call of his blood, but he still jumped out of his skin when Dean’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Fuck,” he wheezed, feeling the tears well up again, infuriating and unwanted. He ducked his head as he tried to pull himself together, fist pressed to his thundering heart.

"What, Sam? D’you want me around or not? ‘Cause I’m gonna need a clear answer right now if I’m gonna have to tolerate your whiny shit." Sam raised his head the slightest bit after scrubbing at his eyes rapidly. At least Dean’s irises were green again. Maybe if he didn’t look too hard, he could pretend that this was the Dean he knew, the one who had never apologized to him for the Gadreel fiasco, who had shown him time and time again that he didn’t believe in Sam as much as Sam believed in him, but who Sam knew inside and out, and vice versa. 

He couldn’t say the same about this Dean, whose face was too hard, his smiles painted on and his words blunt and emotionless. A version of Dean that was similar to the Dean who was under the influence of the Mark, but less single-minded, and much more unsettling for it. Sam wondered if this was what he’d been like when he was soulless, and the thought made him cringe, reminding him of how much trouble he’d caused Dean at the time.  

"Hey, head case. Anybody home?" Dean waved a hand in front of his face, and he realized he’d been spacing out, caught up in anxious musings that wouldn’t do him an ounce of good. "Yeah, I. Of course I want you around, Dean. How could you think—" Dean snorted, obviously unconvinced. "For starters, you’re acting like you expect me to bash your skull in at any second." 

_Won’t you?_  Sam thought, but he kept his mouth shut. “If this’s gonna work, you’re gonna have to stop crying,” Dean said, and Sam nodded, tingling ache behind his eyes where he knew more tears were waiting to be shed at the slightest provocation. He hadn’t cried this much in years. 

"And…is the blood thing gonna be an issue? Because we could settle that right here; I’m all for giving you what you need if it’ll make you less…unstable."

Horrified, Sam gave Dean a weak shove, because he’d deliberately licked at the smudge of Crowley’s blood at the edge of his mouth and Sam’s gaze had been automatically riveted to the exaggerated movement. “ _No_ ,” Sam insisted, almost managing to say it without stammering. “No, you’re not doing that to me. Don’t ever fucking bring that up again.” Dean shrugged coolly, though something stony and vicious had flashed in his eyes before he could shutter it away. “If that’s what you really want, princess.” He shouldered past Sam and made for his own room, melting into the shadows of the hallway like a fucking wraith. 

"Get some goddamn sleep," Dean called back at him, nothing more than a disembodied voice. "Soon as the sun comes up, we’re finding shit to kill. And by shit, I mean Metatron. Be grateful; I could’ve just left you here and set off the second I woke up." 

"Okay," Sam whispered to the floor, listening to the sound of Dean’s blood grow fainter as he got further away. Exhausted, he stood there and rubbed a thumb against the imaginary wound in the palm of his hand, a habit that had stayed with him since his mind had cracked three years ago and he’d needed a way to ground himself in reality. 

_I’m proud of us_ , Dean had said, just before his head had lolled forward and Sam’s heart had stopped.  _For what?_  Sam wanted to ask him now,  _What have we ever done but test each other’s patience?_  But he wasn’t sure this Dean could give him an answer. He wasn’t sure his Dean could, either. 


End file.
